Baker's Dozen by Amey Zeigler

Author:Amey Zeigler [Zeigler, Amey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, suspense, martial arts, journalist
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2017-10-17T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Tyrone barely acknowledged the small homely woman with unkept semi-curly hair as he peeked around the house of crazed disorder. He shivered. The disorder disoriented him, but he was here to deliver a message. He had to maintain control. “May I come in?” Two of his men remained at the door, another in the car.

Tyrone used his large frame to bulldoze past the woman without waiting for a response. He inspected the lack of taste in what little dusty decor hung from the walls and crowded surfaces. He sneered at the piles of magazines on the coffee table and the pyramid of shoes by the door. Mrs. Miller nervously buzzed round him. He grew bold under her fear.

He stopped at a picture of a girl hanging near the foyer. Her skirted leotard hung over skinny little legs, stretching up to her jazz hands. Though it was an older picture, he recognized her. “Is this your daughter?” he asked.

“Stepdaughter.”

Tyrone studied the girl behind the glass for a few seconds, as if he were an old family friend. How could this one little girl cause all this trouble? Then with one hand clutching his hat, he suddenly strode into the living room, observed an overstuffed chair marked with stains and decided to stand.

“You know,” Tyrone said, taking out a hanky and wiped his eyes, gleaming with tears. “Last night, I ordered Maine lobster tails, clams, and shrimp from the grocer.”

“What?” Mrs. Miller trembled. He smiled.

“Yes, I ordered the tails, boiled them, steamed the clams, peeled and deveined the shrimp, then brined, shredded, and combined them all into a seafood mixture.”

“You’re giving me a recipe?”

“Hush. Just listen.”

He wandered to the kitchen, which was just in view of the little front room, sneering at the crusted dishes in the sink. “Then I mixed them with panko crumbs, you see. Now here’s the secret, I used a watermelon baller to make the balls—the only way to form them to a perfect uniform size every time. I liked to cook. I attended École de Cuisine. Unfortunately, my father had other career plans for me. Thankfully, I can still cook.

“Sadly, three days ago, I fried my little balls in safflower oil, you might want to remember this, safflower oil is better for frying delicate meats like the seafood because it reaches a high temperature faster.”

Mrs. Miller stared at him. Giving these little lessons disarmed his victims.

“It sounds wonderful,” she said. “I’m sure you enjoyed them, now if you excuse me—”

“I’m not finished yet. You shouldn’t be so rude. I need to tell you my story.”

Sandra sat back down. He continued his culinary lesson.

“I like to fry mine at a temperature of three hundred and fifty or so, just to give the panko crumbs the right golden-brown texture on the outside.” He pinched the air with his forefingers and smacked his lips. A hint of a smile played on the lips as if he were savoring the meal all over again this very moment. Then his face changed, hardened, darkened.

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